Old Scars
by enigma939
Summary: Novel-verse. With his family threatened yet again, Bourne must confront an old enemy and unearth a horrifying secret of his forgotten past that has left more than a few deep scars in his psyche.
1. Prologue: The Prisoner

**Old Scars**

**A/N: **This fic is set in the universe of the Bourne novels, both the originals by Robert Ludlum and the continuation novels by Eric van Lustbader. As such I've tried to blend in elements from both author's takes on the character. My fic is also partly influenced by the films as well.

In terms of chronology, this fic is set between the events of _The Bourne Legacy _and _The Bourne Betrayal_, mainly because I wanted to use the character of Martin Lindros for the fic instead of Conklin. Also, to understand my fic, I'd recommend you should have read at least one of the Ludlum novels, and preferably a Lustbader one as well.

**Prologue: The Prisoner**

_Many Years ago..._

In an abandoned warehouse on London's East End, three men burst into a room; two of the more burlier among them carrying between themselves the bruised and bleeding figure of another man who looked more like a human ragdoll. The third man who led the way said out loud, "Take a lot at this, Bernie. This one's a prize catch" in a heavy Irish accent.

A light, from a feeble bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling, went on at that moment, causing all three men to involuntarily jump, although they'd seen this happen so many times before, even _knew _it was what would happen this time round. And yet they stared with a reverence bordering on fear at the man, clad completely in black, seated behind a desk at the semi-lit back corner of the large room. The man had blond hair in a crew suit, military style and greenish-grey eyes that he could use to both inspire and to intimidate. One thing was evident. Bernard Sebastian _was _more than just a man...but not really a machine either. For no machine could duplicate his fluid movements, his cold and precise speech, the sheer dexterity with which his hands would work, be it to mix a drink or to assemble an automatic pistol.

The man turned towards the three men. His gaze lingered on them for an instant before it turned towards their prisoner, the 'prize catch' the lead man, Wilson, was speaking of. For a few moments he failed to recognise. Then Wilson prised the bleeding head of the prisoner up, towards the direction of the light, and recognition dawned upon Shaw's mind. The brown hair, the hazel eyes that changed colour in different lights...yes, they were all there, all the minor details he'd gleaned from the files and photographs he had bought in Paris two years ago. And as he walked forward slowly and stared into the face of the adversary who had eluded him so often in the past six weeks, he could not but help perceive a feeling of triumph surging through his body and his mind.

They had captured Jason Bourne.

Jason Charles Bourne. Alias Cain. The dreaded killing machine from the jungles of Southeast Asia. The most feared assassin for hire in the Far East and the second most feared in Western Europe, after the legendary Carlos the Jackal. The Chameleon with innumerable names and disguises, and even more victims to his name. But as many rumours and as many legends had sprung up around this enigmatic and dangerous figure, the fact remained that there were many lies as well. The lies put in place by some of the finest manipulators and masterminds of the clandestine world in order to obscure a few vital truths-that Jason Bourne was in fact a high-level CIA operative; a deep-cover agent whose affiliation with the Agency was so classified that it was virtually unknown save to a few powerful individuals inside Beltway and others privileged with the information on a strictly need-to-know basis. The perfect spy and assassin, an engine of destruction unto himself; wielded by self-important men in Washington. The men whose power and influence he had made it, amongst other things, his life's mission to destroy. And now he had, at long last, he had captured one of their pawns. No. Not a pawn. A _knight_. The difference being that there was no shining armour on Cain. And by the time his 'boys' were done with him, there certainly would never be...

"Well, well, well", Sebastian said in his cold accent-less voice. "Looks like we have quite a goldmine here." He raised the head of the unconscious and drugged prisoner higher and stared into the face which he was told could take on many aspects, many shapes. He then addressed Wilson, "You know what to do. Get the tapes running. Don't bother going easy on the brass-knuckles _or _the chemicals. In two weeks time I want enough material to fill up about half a dozen dossiers. In four weeks time, I want the no doubt enormous proceeds from the sales of those files deposited in our Swiss and Cayman Island accounts."

As Wilson nodded his ascent and gestured for the two men behind him to take their prize catch down to the lower levels of the warehouse and to their instruments of coercion and torture, Bernard Sebastian walked back to his desk and switched off the light. Plunged into darkness, his face took on a nearly inhuman aspect for a few moments, which, had anyone been around to look upon, would have been sufficient to kill the person out of sheer fright. 

Yes, thought Sebastian Shaw. It was only a matter of time now. An American today, a Russian tomorrow, perhaps even an Israeli the day after...and one day _he _would be the one holding all the invisible controls...the reigns of a shadow world which under the might of _his _people, would take over and enable him to rule unconditionally.

_One day_.


	2. Chapter 1: Web of Circumstance

**Old Scars**

**Chapter 1: Web of Circumstance**

_The Present_

Rodney Terrier was in the back garden of his house in suburban Washington, his weapon in his hand, his senses sharp and alert. He never truly believed he would be back in the field again, at least not like this. But then again he should have seen it coming. Especially when four other men had mysteriously disappeared in the past three weeks, two of their bodies having been discovered in sewers. And he would have undeniably been the fifth target of their murderer. Five men, all field officers long-since retired from the field, hunted down simply because they had once been tasked with the job of protecting one man and his family.

David Webb. Better known within the intelligence community as Jason Bourne.

Terrier had known who David Webb was, even though some of his other colleagues on that particular assignment had not. Mainly because Webb himself had trusted Terrier with the knowledge. The two had become reasonably close at some point. Terrier suspected it was because of their common history of loss. Terrier too had once had a wife and a daughter, who'd perished when a car bomb exploded during his early days in the intelligence game. And Webb of course, had lost his family to the senseless violence in Southeast Asia. While Terrier had felt privileged at first to be privy to such classified information, he had also since lives in daily fear of the secrets he now held in his head...secrets which dangerous men from a dozen intelligence services, terrorist groups and crime syndicates would be willing to kill in order to learn.

This was partly the reason why Terrier had opted out of the field about a year after the Webb assignment ended. He realised the damage he could potentially do not only to the US intelligence community, but perhaps more significantly to one man and his family, with what he knew if he was ever captured. And in any case, one only need look at David Webb closely to realise the terrible price field work exacted from any agent who'd been 'out in the cold' for too long. No. Desk work was better, _much _safer.

And yet he was back in the field now, moments away from being captured or killed. He had heard the man stealthily moving through the house. No. Not a man. _Men_. Two, possibly three. Maybe even four. _He had to get out_.

And so he was out, in the garden, as fast as he could run, his gun aimed at everything and nothing. The sweat running down his forehead and drenching his collar. It was the silence that unnerved him more than anything else, he admitted to himself. The feeling of the calm before the storm.

The storm came. It _happened_. The faint odour reached his nose before he had a chance to react. His eyes started to burn and then water. He started to cough. His gun started to slip from his hands, but he struggled to get a steady grip. He wildly fired. Once. Twice. And then, in response, a third bullet was fired from a silenced gun, and lanced through his gun arm, forcing him to squeal in pain. But the squeal was itself silenced with a powerful arm sliding around his neck, covering his mouth while the second hand of his attacker depressed certain nerve endings that made him feel dizzy and caused him to slowly but steadily black out...

* * *

When he came around he was in the exquisitely leathered back seat of a car, seated upright between two men. The man on his left had a gun aimed at his stomach while the one on his right, a tall formidable looking man with crew-cut blond hair and greenish-grey eyes stared at him and said in a cold low accent-less monotone, "Now Mr. Terrier. You and I are going to have a nice long chat about a certain David Webb and where I can find him..."

And in the torturous hours that lay ahead, Terrier often hoped and prayed that Jason Bourne was as invincible an operative, as capable of protecting himself and his family, as the rumours said he was...because if not, he, Rodney Terrier, had clearly doomed David Webb...


	3. Chapter 2: A Hunted Man

**Old Scars**

**Chapter 2: A Hunted Man**

When David Webb was escorted out of the dark inconspicuous sedan by two stone-faced CIA agents and into the safehouse deep in the Virginia countryside, every instinct in his head told him to take out his two escorts, whip out a weapon and get out of there, shooting everyone who tried to stop him.

Except that there _was _no weapon. Mild mannered university professors in Georgetown usually didn't carry weapons on their persons while exiting campus. In Webb's case, even if they happened to have a long, if somewhat obscure, history of violence and danger.

The fact remained that he was paranoid when a year, or better yet two years ago, he wouldn't have been. Bottom line was that his relations with the Agency that had trained him, given his life a purpose when it had lacked one, had severely declined following the death of his friend and mentor Alexander Conklin. Conklin had been the one man the amnesiac ex-agent trusted in the Agency, the one reason why his alter ego Jason Bourne had still been loosely affiliated with the organisation that had used, and on occasion even abused him, for so long. The fact that he had been implicated, not too long ago, as a suspect in Conklin's murder, and that _they _in turn had done their best to find him and kill him did nothing to alleviate the tensions.

He wondered what this was all about now. Was there yet another crisis which only the likes of Jason Bourne could handle? If so, they could take their crisis and shove it up their bureaucratic assholes! And despite all that, Webb confessed to himself that he often did feel a strange urge to return to the clandestine life of adrenaline fuelled action and violence against his better judgement; an urge which his late psychiatrist Mo Panov had done his best to suppress but which Conklin had on occasion exploited.

He walked into the safehouse and was led up and elevator to the upper levels where he was escorted into a small room. Seated at the other end of a small table, with a lamp hanging over it from a ceiling, the room itself being reminiscent of an FBI interrogation room; was someone whom David was surprisingly quite pleased to see.

"Martin!" David said, out of both surprise and relief as the Deputy Director of the CIA stood up from his chair to shake hands with him. Martin Lindros smiled at Webb in his usual pleasant manner and beckoned to him to take a seat. He then waved the two escorts out of the room and the two men sat down. Lindros cleared his throat and started, "Before we begin I think as a matter of procedure I should inform you that nothing that takes place within this room is going to be either recorded or taped in any manner".

Of course not, David thought to himself. Briefings regarding black ops missions were seldom recorded in any manner. It was one of the golden rules of the shadow world of covert operations; one that made plausible deniability a bit easier to accept when the shit hit the fan. Conklin of course never bothered with such procedural warnings but then again, Conklin had hardly been what his peers and superiors would have called a 'by the book' man. Martin Lindros on the other hand, from what little Webb had heard of him, was known to toe the line conscientiously, though clearly not to slavish extremes, which was the reason why he had set up this meeting with a rogue agent who was in all probability 'off-limits' to all Agency strategists since Conklin's death.

"Look Martin", David said. "I don't want to waste your time on whatever it is you've planned. Bottom line is that I've retired from the spy business. It's not only because I'm quite frankly tired of it but also, more importantly, because every time I step out into the cold, I risk endangering the lives of my family".

Martin listened to him in silence and then spoke calmly, "Is that what you used to tell Conklin?"

"Damn it, Lindros!" Webb said angrily. "I won't mince words. Alex was the only guy in the whole goddamn Agency I trusted and would have worked with, one of the reasons being he was a maverick within the Agency; accountable to no one except sometimes the 'Old Man', free from all the bureaucratic horseshit that seeped down from Beltway that contaminated Langley and wherever that new place in DC is where you're are holed up now. Now you Martin are a lot better than most of those suits, from what I've seen of you, but you're still way too close to the horseshit. So whatever it is you want me to do, the answer is no!"

Again, Lindros listened to him in silence and then commented casually, "You know, despite some of the exaggerated crap written in your psychiatric profile back at HQ, they've got one thing spot on. You are _extremely _stubborn as hell!"

"I'll take that as a compliment", Jason Bourne said softly.

Lindros seemed not to notice the sudden change in tone and composure in the man seated opposite to him. What was also true in the CIA psychiatric profile on David Webb was the precarious balance between his two identities, a fact which Lindros was well aware of and not in the least perturbed by. He himself had changed a lot as a person ever since he joined the Agency and first went into the field; Webb, or rather Bourne, had been through about a hundred times more than anything Lindros could ever have imagined, and so psychological damage of some sort wasn't really as remote a possibility as most would assume.

"Look", said Lindros. "This isn't about a mission. I'm not recruiting you here. This is about your safety. Yours and your family's. As of 72 hours ago, all of you'll are in grave danger. Pardon me if I'm being melodramatic, but it's true".

If Lindros expected this statement to cause the man seated opposite to him to go into a panic, he was wrong. David Webb might have panicked, but Jason Bourne, his tone icy cold, his body rigid, spoke, "What happened?"

As if on cue, Lindros produced a dossier on the table. Bourne opened it and stared at the photograph on the first page. The man in the photograph did seem vaguely familiar to him, but, as had often happened before, he could not for the life of himself assign a name to the face. He studied the impassive face, the crew-cut blond hair and the greenish-grey eyes, trying to stir any faint memories in the dark abyss that was his mind but there was nothing.

"You don't remember him?" Lindros asked. Bourne looked up from the file and shook his head. Lindros sighed. Bourne's amnesia was also something he was well aware of from the files. "Well Jason, you may not remember this guy but he sure as hell remembers you. And he's coming after you. He's the sole reason why you're now a hunted man".

"Well I've been there before", Bourne replied darkly. "As I recall, the last time it was because of _you _people".

Lindros accepted the rebuke and continued, "His name is Bernard Sebastian. Name ring a bell?"

And all of a sudden, Bourne realised he had had this conversation before...


	4. Chapter 3: Nemesis

**Old Scars**

**A/N: **This chapter contains mild references to characters from the Ludlum novels that might be considered spoilers of sorts. Also I've kind of got a lengthy flashback sequence here, the first of what I think will be many in this fic.

**Chapter 3: Nemesis**

_They were both seated on either end of a coffee table at the small but comfortable hotel situated in the outskirts of Paris, where he'd just completed his last assignment-eliminating one of Carlos's local contacts to send a 'message' to the terrorist both feared and revered in the shadow world of clandestine operations. _Yet_ another part of the 'master plan' concocted by the likes of Alex Conklin and David Abbott. But Bourne didn't know exactly what the 'big picture' was and he didn't really care-he was just an operative; just another soldier in this shadow war. His was not to reason why..._

_Which was why when Conklin had set up this sudden meeting, he did not really question his long-time friend and handler. He simply agreed to the meeting and planned the logistics of it. In his world, a world where a single misstep could cost someone his or her life, if not _lives_, every minute detail needed to be planned and plotted to the last degree. Plus, Conklin's message had sounded urgent and Bourne knew that it meant something big had come up. Something big enough to require the assistance of the Agency's premier 'asset'._

_Conklin pushed the dossier across the table. Bourne opened it and stared briefly at the photograph on the front page. He studied the impassive face with the crew-cut blond hair and greenish-grey eyes for a moment before looking up at the Agency strategist. "Who is he?" he asked plainly, in his usual cold monotone._

"_His name's Bernard Sebastian", said Conklin._

"_Should that name ring a bell?" asked Jason._

_Alex smiled wryly. "It wouldn't to you. But if you'd been in this business as long as I have, chances are it would."_

"_Who is he?"_

_Alex sighed. "He's by and large an information broker. His MO is stealing classified files and records belonging to intelligence agencies and selling them to the highest bidder. And when he cannot get his hands on dossiers, or they simply do not exist, he _creates _dossiers by capturing agents belonging to the target organisation and torturing them for information. On occasion however he veers of the information business sometimes to the mercenary one-whenever and wherever it's more lucrative. There's hardly ever any personal involvement-he simply 'buys' the services of any mercenary army or contract killer in the world on behalf of his clients and pockets a substantial fee in the process."_

"_Sound like quite a pirate to me", admitted Bourne. "Has he tried to buy Carlos yet?"_

"_My sources tell me he has, once, a couple of years back", Conklin replied._

"_And why hasn't he approached me yet?" asked Bourne._

"_Probably because he knows you aren't really a 'free agent'", Conklin replied dryly. "As much as I hate to admit it, he may have penetrated pretty deep into the Agency; may be even as far in as Treadstone."_

"_That's going to be a problem", Jason said. "What's the plan? Take him out?"_

"_No. Taking him out isn't really an option at this point. He's too valuable a resource to be 'wasted', even for us. You see we _may _have bought a thing or two from him as well at some point. No you're immediate concern is something entirely different..." said Conklin._

David Webb recoiled backwards in his chair from the sharp touch of the shard of memory which the conversation with Martin Lindros had just evoked. Yet again, as he often had in the last many years, he marvelled at his fractured psyche which transported him, in his mind at least, through space and time to events, places and people long forgotten. Disjointed memories that seemed familiar and yet alien; that were a part of him and yet apart from all he knew. It was a paradox which, try all he might, he could never resolve. For a long time, he had tried to convince himself that it was another life, another person in those fragmentary recollections that were not his own. And yet, more often than not, it was those very recollections of another life that came back to haunt him time and again, that indeed proved pertinent to his present. As was clearly the case now...

Lindros had noticed how Webb had suddenly, vigorously, snapped out of the trance-like state he'd been in for the past few moments. Again, it was something he'd expected, from what he'd read from the files. A familiar name, phrase, place, image, sound or even smell could trigger his hidden memories; vividly bring back his forgotten past for him to behold in his mind's eye, if only for a few seconds at a time. He wondered what Webb had seen now, though he had a vague guess as to what it had been.

"What did you...remember?" he asked hesitatingly.

David looked at him for a few seconds before replying, slowly, "A...hotel room...outside Paris. A briefing. Me and Alex. Something to do with...Bernard Sebastian".

"And do you know who Bernard Sebastian is now?" Lindros asked gently.

"Yeah", Webb admitted. "An information broker. Stole intel from everyone on any side and sold it to the highest bidder...again on both sides. Sometimes served as an intermediary between his clients and hired guns."

"You're quite right", Lindros said. "It's what he was then and what he is now, albeit to a much lesser degree. The fall of the Berlin Wall did lead to a _considerable _reduction in the demand for his services though there are many a Middle Eastern regime that might be willing to do business with him. Among the Western intelligence community, dealing with him is, and always was, considered taboo, though the British have had a few dealings with him and so have we, on at least a couple of occasions...not that we would ever admit it".

"So basically this guy was the pirate of the espionage game", David stated plainly. "Now tell me, where do I fit in? Why does this guy want me?"

"Well evidently it's a reprisal of sorts", admitted Lindros.

"But why? Alex never sent me after him, did he?" Webb asked.

"Yes he did, but termination wasn't the objective", Lindros said softly before he added, "That mission didn't turn out _exactly _as planned...one of the first among your few failures actually, though not really considered as such as there were, shall we say, _collateral _benefits! After all, what happened did result in putting Sebastian temporarily out of business in Europe, not to mention making him taboo in the intelligence world".

"So what _did _happen?" Webb asked his impatience now clearly evident.

Lindros evasively glanced at his watch. "We're running behind schedule. We've already got your family under guard and we've got to mobilize them as soon as possible, preferably heading out of the States. Same with you. As for what happened, that's not really _that _relevant to the present scenario, though I will be happy to fill you in when we have more time later. For now there's only enough time left to tell you what you _do _need to know...namely how Sebastian found you and how we figured out he's on your tail".

If there was one thing David Webb had learnt from his long years of dealing with government officials, it was how to detect evasion on their part. As he did now, from Lindros. However, sheer curiosity overpowered his innate suspicion and he leaned back in his chair and calmly asked Lindros, "Go ahead. By all means"; summoning the icy control of Jason Bourne as he listened to Lindros's words intently, with a concentration, the intensity of which started to intimidate the latter within a few minutes time. 

"It began about three weeks ago when two of our men disappeared; suspected right from the start to have been abducted by force. One was a field operative on vacation out in the country, the other was an ex-field operative currently holding down a desk job in Washington. Now agents getting abducted _itself _isn't such a big shocker in Langley, as you may well know, but what was disquieting was that these two weren't really _supposed _to be in danger...they weren't actively involved in _any _covert operation, at least not within the past three months in the first case and in the second case the guy was long retired from the field anyway. They faced no possible threat from any current assignments and no old enemies from the past left to speak off. So naturally, these...events...raised a hell of a hue and cry at the Agency. Barely had the furore subsided and investigations commenced when we had our _third _disappearance. Another former field officer, recently retired from the Agency and now working part-time for his family business. That naturally got us on our toes. And in a week we found our first body in a sewer just outside of DC. The guy had been drugged and tortured first just before he'd been shot twice in the chest", Lindros paused for a moment after this gruesome detail and also to observe David's reaction to his narrative. But David Webb had gone again...only Jason Bourne remained, his expression blank but the intensity reflected in his eyes unmistakable. "Go on", he said simply.

"By then of course we realised we had a clear situation on our hands. There was something...some common thread between these three men that led to their abductions and their deaths. So we plugged their names into the computers, searched for common patterns and came up with one factor: _You_. All these three men had at one point of time or the other been assigned to guard _you_", Lindros laid emphasis on the last word, as if to highlight the significance of what he was implying.

"Someone's after me", Jason said. It was a statement. Not a question.

"Yes", Lindros replied. "Barely a few days after the third abduction, we had a fourth. _And _a second body that turned up in the sewers not very far from where we found the first one. There was no significance in the location; our agents combed the area thoroughly and we turned up nothing. The location was just a blind".

"You people have been at this for weeks, and at no point of time did you see fit to inform _me_?" Bourne asked suddenly, startling Lindros with his icy emotionless tone.

"Uh, no" Lindros replied hesitatingly. "You see, the problem we weren't exactly sure if you _were _the perpetrator's real objective. Besides, and I don't mind telling you this, you're bad news at Langley now. Off-limits, unless we can't help it. Alex Conklin was the only one they trusted to handle you and Conklin's gone".

"My God! You people wouldn't even _hesitate _to approach me for every other goddamn corkscrew reason from bumping off terrorists to suicidal rescue missions...and you don't even think of _calling _to inform me of the _minor _fact that my family just _happens _to be in danger!" Bourne practically roared.

"Please. You need to understand. Until 72 hours ago we weren't quite sure of _anything_", Lindros replied, somewhat desperately.

"What changed?" Bourne asked, his face now somewhat impassive but the internal menace of a man who'd been played far too often by nameless, faceless manipulators and was sick of it still gleaming off his features.

"Rodney Terrier", Lindros said simply. "Remember him?"

"Of course I do", Bourne snapped. "My amnesia isn't _that _recent".

Rodney Terrier had been one of the guards assigned by the Agency to protect him back in the days when the likelihood of Carlos the Jackal bursting in through the front door of the Webb house, gun in hand and bloodshed to follow, was a very real and vivid possibility. A veteran field officer who'd lost his family to a car bomb. David Webb had trusted him, confided in him even, than he had in any of his other guards, perhaps because of their common history of loss of loved ones.

"Well Terrier was the fifth disappearance around three days ago. Except that he didn't really disappear. He'd escaped somehow after twelve hours of...coercion. They'd tried torture and they tried chemicals on him but he got away...God alone knows how. Made his way to a hospital, contacted one of our local relays and, in a half-lucid, half-hysterical state, told him everything he could before he succumbed to his injuries", Lindros said.

Bourne closed his eyes in sheer frustration and grief. Yet another innocent life lost, simply because of who he was. Or rather, who he _had been_. The list of names was long indeed. Alex Conklin, Mo Panov, Francois Bernadine, Philippe D'Anjou, David Abbott. Hell, even his own _brother_, Gordon Webb. To name only a few. And now yet _another _name had been added to the list. Five names, actually.

But this was no time for grieving. This was time for action.

"What did he tell you?" Bourne demanded.  
"He just gave us a description and what little he could remember about the information he'd been forced to give up. From what we could gather, he was questioned extensively about you, your residence, your family and their habits and routines. Everything. Pretty much your whole life. And from what Terrier was able to tell our man, the people who questioned him already seemed to know a fair bit of what they wanted...their purpose in capturing was mainly to verify their intel and get a few finer points".

"You figured out that it's this Bernard Sebastian guy just on the basis of a _description_?" Bourne asked incredulously.

"That and his MO", Lindros said. "Kidnapping and torturing agents for information. It's the way Sebastian works. Besides, to even pinpoint the names and locations of your guards, information which as you know is classified _above _top-secret, means that the perp has men who have penetrated deep down into Langley. And Sebastian is one of the few men we know who has penetrated _that _far down into _any _intelligence service".

Bourne took a deep breath. The face of Bernard Sebastian swam before his mind's eye. Not the face in the file but a face from the past. The forgotten past remembered only in fragments and nightmares. He had identified his nemesis. And all that remained now was to find him and eliminate him...

"I need to get moving", he told Lindros firmly.

"I've already made the arrangements", Lindros calmly replied.


	5. Chapter 4: In Transit

**Old Scars**

**Chapter 4: In Transit**

As Marie St. Jacques sat in the back seat of the white Audi, her sleeping daughter Allison on one side of her and her son Jamie playing a game furiously on his brand new cellphone, she reflected on the terror of a shadow world that had violently intruded yet again into her family's lives.

A shadow world of violence and death that a young peaceful scholar had been driven into, traumatised irreparably by the painful loss of loved ones. A world that had moulded and reshaped that same man into an ice-cold killer; a predator who instinctively knew how to conspire and how to destroy; the perfect weapon. An assassin.

Marie had been violently thrust into this world by a series of random circumstances, at first against her will, but before long, voluntarily. For she had seen what the shadows, the violence, the death had done to this man. She had sensed the agonies it had inflicted upon his mind; untold agonies which even _he _did not remember, save in brief, painful flashes of what he always told her seemed like someone else's life. Someone else's past.

Ever since the man known as Jason Bourne, the ruthless killer manipulated by unseen forces and circumstances, rediscovered the forgotten and peaceful existence of the mild-mannered David Webb, he sought to embrace that life and leave the horrors of his past behind. A decision which Marie had fully accepted, for it meant for her at long last the guarantee of a long peaceful and above all, _normal_, life with a husband and eventually, children. And yet the spectre of the Bourne identity continued to haunt them; continued to haunt _him_. As it did now.

Marie did not ask the agents who'd presented themselves at her house exactly what the situation was. All she needed to know was that David had called her, asking her to cooperate with the men from the Agency, and to go with them, with the children, wherever they took her. David also promised that he would get in touch as soon as possible.

Her _David_. But not really _her _David any longer. For his body now belonged to the monster known as Jason Bourne; a monster crafted by Alex Conklin and his fellow strategists to destroy other monsters, other killers. But none of it made any sense to Marie. It never had. Men hidden in shadows shooting and stabbing at enemies in the dark; fighting their own little deadly games, fighting their own stupid _secret _wars. It was absurd. It made no goddamned sense to her!

And yet it made sense to David Webb. Or rather, to Jason Bourne. And _that _was what frightened her.

She prayed for his soul. She prayed David would return someday. And yet she prayed that David's emotions, David's thoughts would not intrude upon the cold and precision-based concentration and calculations of Jason Bourne. For she knew that the only chance David had of ever coming back to her was if he let Bourne do whatever he must.

*** 

Bourne had, as always, things to do, preparations to make, the first of which was to contact the president of Georgetown University and secure a leave of absence. Following which he made calls to his neighbours, telling them a hastily concocted story of the failing health of relatives in Canada (the story was at least partially true as Marie did have her family in Canada, except that they were all in the pink of health) and instructing them to carry out such routine tasks as watering the plants, or checking the thermostat, or suspending the newspaper subscription; all the one hundred and one minute _details _that were essentially to take care of, in order to avoid the illusion of a hasty, suspicious departure.

These he made with his cellphone, while seated in the backseat of another sedan Lindros had called for as soon as they left the safehouse. Lindros himself was texting instructions to his men. After Bourne was finished with his calls, Martin told him, "I've got you a place near our old headquarters in Langley. A safehouse, round the clock guard and surveillance. Place where we protect defectors, double agents, informers and so on. Though God knows, we wish we had more of them", Lindros chuckled, but seeing the grim expression on Bourne's face, thought better than to make any further jokes. "We'll refine strategy there"

Bourne remained silent for a few minutes before he said plainly, "I assume that you _do _have a strategy then".

"Not really. Just an overall objective. We...I was waiting to consult you. The obvious thing we need to do first and foremost is to pinpoint Bernard Sebastian. He is very likely in the country right now since he's obviously coordinating operations to find your family. But after a few days, when search efforts don't go too well for him, he's very likely to retreat back into the shadows and wait for you to make your move. It's pretty much the way he operates, if you remember", Martin said.

"We need to draw him out then", Bourne said contemplatively.

"Easy to say", commented Lindros. "But how?"

Bourne closed his eyes and his thoughts went back years in time...to a brownstone house in New York City where a strategy had been refined. An intricate strategy that had been almost perfect but had been shattered by unforeseeable circumstances, just as his mind, his memory, had been shattered. A trap for a man called Carlos.

"A decoy", he said suddenly. "A bait".

"An invention?" asked Lindros.

"Only as far as the situation goes. But behind the myth there would be a real killer", Bourne explained.

Lindros frowned before adding, "Somehow I've heard of something like this before".

"Of course you have", Bourne replied. "I'll need your help for the smokescreen. The diversion. The myth. You and your men can put that in place. But it can't be in the States. It has to away. Far enough from Marie and the kids. You handle _that _part and tell me where to be. And when the time comes I'll be there".

There was a moment of tense silence after this ominous statement. Then Lindros, hesitatingly asked "And then what?"

Bourne stared at him coldly, emotionlessly, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'll take him out".

Lindros swallowed and thought nervously, _The Old Man's not going to like this at all_.


	6. Chapter 5: Behind the Scenes

**Old Scars**

**Chapter 5: Behind the Scenes**

Two hours after dropping Jason Bourne off at the safehouse in Langley, Martin Lindros was seated in the Director's suite of the new CIA Headquarters in Washington DC, overlooking the Potomac. The Agency had moved the bulk of its staff and base of operations to DC after the existence of the Langley base had become too public for their liking a few years back. Langley had now become a kind of public relations office for the CIA, a decoy of sorts. This little bit of misdirection being yet another stroke of genius from the legendary and greatly revered man now seated opposite to Lindros behind his desk. His formal title was Director of Central Intelligence but he was known within the Agency and in the intelligence community in general as the 'Old Man'.

The Old Man had just finished listening to Lindros's report on his extraction of David Webb from his university campus as well as the latter's briefing and, as Lindros had expected, wasn't altogether too pleased about that last statement made by the former agent.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't anticipate it, Martin", the Old Man said calmly. He then added sardonically, "And to think Alex spent all those years trying to convince me that Bourne was tired of the killing and just wanted to lead the quite life".

"Well, considering the fact that his family's in danger..." Lindros began cautiously. "I mean...you know..."

"Yeah I know Martin", said the DCI. "I remember the story".

The story was a tragic one indeed, of a wife and two children violently slain in Cambodia; an experience enough to traumatise any man. In the case of David Webb, the trauma had proved to be useful to the Agency for it had given them the opportunity, _Conklin_ the opportunity, to reshape the bereaved husband and father's mind, to transform him from victim to victimiser. To create their finest weapon, their best asset-the spy and the killer who would eventually take the name Jason Bourne.

But despite the tragic story, the DCI, not unlike many of his immediate subordinates in the higher echelons of the Agency, had been unable to ever bring himself to pity Bourne. He never really liked the man, never really liked his arrogance, his maverick attitude, his utter disregard for any authority save for the strategists at Treadstone, and then sometimes, even not them. He saw Bourne only as a resource to be exploited whenever he needed him. And yet he was a resource whom the Old Man always feared would backfire someday. A part of him was even relieved when Bourne left the Agency after his memory loss; so what if they had lost their best asset-assets like Bourne were liabilities where the DCI was concerned.

He didn't really want to involve Bourne with the CIA in _any _capacity but he had promised Alex that he would do everything in his power to protect the latter's former protégée and his family. But even now, and the Old Man was loathe to admit this to himself, his conspirator's mind was working out how to turn the 'protected man' into an asset. It had been part of his plan, a vague plan that had sprung to mind when Lindros had first briefed him about the Bernard Sebastian situation.

"So what do we do now?" Martin asked his superior, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"We need Bernard Sebastian alive. That objective never changes no matter what", said the DCI.

"Bourne isn't going to like that...I can tell you. The stuff in his psychiatric profile is real. He really _does _have a multiple personality disorder. And the part of him Conklin created all those years ago, the part that's meant to hunt and kill, it's more out of control than ever. He needs to be handled carefully", Lindros said. "He can't really know what we're after. Once he learns he's being used, he'll go ballistic".

"Well there's an answer to that too", said the Old Man coldly.

"It won't work", Lindros said swiftly, with determination.

"Well Martin, it seems we do have somewhat of an impossible situation here. We want Sebastian alive, Bourne obviously wants him dead. We need Bourne to get to Sebastian but we can't afford to let Bourne have a chance to kill him. And at the same time we can't really put Bourne on too much of a leash because his family's at stake every minute Sebastian's on the loose, and we can't afford to risk civilian lives. We'll have not only Congress but even the Canadian government breathing down our necks if anything happens to his wife or her children", the Old Man sighed. "Sleep on it Martin. But for God's sake keep an eye on Bourne. And get me an answer before Bourne gets to Sebastian."

"Yes sir", Lindros said as he rose to get out of the suite. As he was walking towards the door the DCI's voice rang out, causing him to pause mid-step and turn, "Oh and one more thing, Martin. Did you by any chance tell Bourne about what happened in London?"

"No sir", Lindros replied.

"Good", replied the DCI. "Cause if he knows that that bastard Sebastian _tortured _him, we can kiss any chance of getting back our prize alive away".


	7. Chapter 6: Memory of Pain

**Old Scars**

**Chapter 6: Memory of Pain**

Jason Bourne did not sleep well that night.

_He was in pain. Such excruciating pain as he had never felt before in his life. He had felt such pain in his mind, but none in his body. Not as much as this...Never as much as this..._

_A searing bolt of agony shot through his chest...but he did not scream...his mind was numb...his tongue too...all he could manage was a feeble groan..._

_And then, from the centre of all pain came the cold accent-less voice, "How does to be at the other end of the knife, Cain? Comfortable, I hope. After all we do aim to give you more comfort than the legendary Jason Bourne is rumoured to give _his _victims..."_

_The smile! The goddamn sadistic smile!!! He couldn't see it this time, the pain had blinded him, but he could feel it! Christ, could he feel it!!!_

"_Of course the myth has rather exploded now, hasn't it my boy? You might have realised by now this is way above the league of pathetic chameleon tricks and Red Indian play-acting. This is the world of professionals...a world where you, as I have realised, do not belong...don't you agree with me, Mr. Bourne? Don't you..."_

_Don't you...don't you...don't you...don't you...don't you..._

_The words echoed again and again until he was prepared to do anything, admit _anything_, to make the goddamn ringing stop...for he knew the consequences of not answering all too well...and yet the pain was so great he barely had the strength to utter another groan..._

"_Use the cattle-prods again...Mr. 'Cain' here knows the rules better than any of us...don't you?"_

_Again that goddamn phrase-'don't you'...and he _knew _what was coming...he knew and yet he could barely speak...barely open his mouth if he even knew where his mouth was anymore..._

_And once again the fresh stab of excruciating pain shot through his entire being...a blinding white light replaced his vision and his hearing as well...he felt both heat and cold, perhaps even both in that instant as earth and sky became one, or perhaps galaxies apart..._

_Years later, he opened his eyes, if they weren't already opened and saw a face, a blurred hazy outline starting to form...but he couldn't remember the face, couldn't remember the voice...for it was better not to acknowledge if he remembered, better to forget..._

_Yes, to forget...as he had forgotten so much..._

"_I think it's time to try the soft approach again..."_

_Did he know that voice?_

_And then the same voice, in a low monotone, almost gentle, almost tranquil, almost...sympathetic..._

"_I need to know everything _you _know about a certain Project Treadstone...and you _do _know something...don't you..."_

"_I don't...I don't..."_

_I don't..._

_And then from another life, from somebody else's life he saw the folder. And the photograph within...the crew-cut blond hair, the impassive face, the greenish grey eyes..._

With a cry that spoke of the furies of a million tormented hells, Bourne sat up in his bed, gasping for air, his arms and legs frantically moving, his every sense magnified threefold, as though he were an animal trying to fend off a sudden attack. The darkness of the room enveloped him and took on a seemingly demonic aspect before his eyes...in the past, darkness had always been his ally...it now seemed to assume the role of an adversary against his mind and his senses.

It took him five minutes, five agonising minutes, to realise that his body and his senses were not under attack from foes unknown and that his body was aching all over not from wounds inflicted, from wounds imaginary. And slowly but steadily, his conscious mind awakened itself to the grim realisation that yet again, as so often before, he had been a victim of a nightmare.

Or was it _just _a nightmare?

Bourne got off his bed and made his way towards the window of the room. He pulled aside the curtains and stared through the sealed window of bulletproof glass into the moonlit fields of Virginia. And amidst the moderate luxury and security of this virtually impregnable fortress of the CIA, the man known in the darkest depths of the shadow world as Jason Bourne was forced to ponder upon the nature of his latest 'bad dream'.

For it had not been just a dream. There had been something, _something _real about it. Some critical element that inextricably linked it to reality. But _what_? He could not remember.

Mo Panov, his late friend and psychiatrist, had told him more than once that his memory fragments were often stimulated by a familiar sight, sound, smell, place or action. If his nightmare was indeed one such memory fragment, then where did the stimulus for it lie? What had he seen or heard recently to cause its return? He didn't know.

The trouble was that mere minutes later, he could remember next to nothing of the dream itself. Except for pain. Pain and a voice. A voice he felt he had heard somewhere before, though he had no idea when or where. Or even if he really _had_. Usually he was able to at least retain the salient details of a memory fragment he'd just relived, but this time he could remember nothing. Almost as though his mind had erected a wall to block that memory, _if _it was a memory which instinct told him it was.

Once again, he was forced to wonder what traumas had he been subjected to in the past, for his mind to erect such impenetrable barriers to his memory of them. For Panov had once theorized that his amnesia was to a certain extent reinforced by his sub-consciousness. Over the years, he had slowly and painfully recovered a few of those memories; violent and traumatic remembrances of death and loss in Southeast Asia, killings in Europe and the Far East, and a half-dozen near-death experiences including the one off the coast of Marseilles that was the trigger for his memory loss in the first place; but he had never remembered anything so physically painful and traumatic as what he had just experienced now.

He stained his mind to think about the nightmare that was in reality no nightmare at all. There had been something. Something he'd seen _as well as _something he'd heard. But what was it?

Only time would tell...

He sighed in defeat and sat down on his bed, staring down at his hands. He thought now not about the past but the present. Lindros had postponed their 'strategy meet' for the next day as he had an urgent appointment with the DCI. Although Bourne trusted Lindros, who had been vouched for previously by the likes of Alex Conklin himself, he still could not shake off the feeling that somehow Lindros was hiding something from him. He had still not revealed to him details of the Bernard Sebastian mission he had been sent on by Conklin all those years ago. For a mission there most certainly had been; his memory of the briefing with Conklin in Paris was testament to that. And considering the Sebastian was coming after him after all these years, it was surely essential for him, Bourne, to know what _had _happened between them. Lindros should have realised that. So why was he holding back the answers? The answers which only Bourne's shattered memory could otherwise provide...

Tomorrow he would confront Lindros and have the truth out of him, he resolved silently in his mind. Tomorrow, he would know...


End file.
